Off line for a bit

Hi everyone,

I will be off line for a bit, well at least another week and a half, as I am assessing the VCE general assessment test.

It's a big one, and I have to commit 100%.

The we have term break. Definitely looking forward to that.

The irony of a full moon ...

lunacy
1540s, "condition of being a lunatic," formed in English from lunatic (q.v.). Originally in ref. to intermittent periods of insanity, such as were believed to be triggered by the moon's cycle. The O.E. equivalent was monaðseocnes "month-sickness."

On Thursday I was diagnosed with a more specific form of mental illness than that of depression and anxiety. I have spent all weekend dealing with it, second guessing every action and reaction, and trying to determine what really makes me who I am. The best way (of course) to begin the process of understanding this news is to write. I thought it would be interesting to write a piece where the protagonist thinks she is stalked by the 'black dog', but finds that she is, in fact, the very object of her fear. I am going to link this piece to the story of Little Red Riding Hood, swapping the wolf for the black dog (although they are most likely one and the same).

You may be interested to know that Thursday night was a full moon here in Australia, and when I realised that I had a wry laugh to myself; oh the bitter irony of it all.

Weddings

I love Weddings.

I love it when a couple, so clearly in love with each other and the world, celebrate this love with the world.

I love it that I was invited to see it, and be reminded of how awesome my husband is, and how lucky I am to have had this opportunity.

I love that I was able to see a family so full of love and support for each other, and that I was able to celebrate and chat with friends.

Thanks Robyn and Danny, I wish you all the love in the world.

Reflections

It's pretty obvious that my writing explores *stuff* that has happened to me over my lifetime, and while it can all seem quite gloomy and depressing, it is my way of telling the world that survival is possible. Something else I truly believe is that no-one like a victim, so instead of dwelling on the past, and enabling a 'poor me' mentality I use my life to explore the nature of being human, and hope that my writing prompts others into taking the 'exploratory plunge'.

To be honest, I struggle to read novels that are 'autobiographical' (I'll explain the inverted commas, I promise), because they seem to have a little bit of the 'and then' about them. And then this happened, and then I said ... and then, and then, and then. To quote a great literary source, 'There is no and then.' Autobiographies should be factual, but their very nature, that is being written about and by the same person, more often than not, makes them a 'filtered' version of events. Getting the audience on the side of the protagonist is often achieved with too many details about the selfless nature of the protagonist; a 'look at me wasn't/ isn't my life *%#@' attitude, that assumes we want to hear about it.

I much prefer something that makes you think. Something that asks you to question your own values and morals, something that doesn't try to force you into having feelings or emotional reactions about a particular person and how grand they are.

That is why my writing has cryptic elements to it. Yes it explores ideas and events, but the aim is not to feel sorry for the protagonist, the aim is to ask, 'What would I have done in this situation?' or 'How can we, as a society, ensure that these things never happen again?'

Do I do that?

While you ponder that question I will explain the last two pieces of writing.

Patient X is a short story that I wrote in January for a competition. I didn't submit it, because I felt the ending seemed to lose momentum. However, I would love to submit it, so welcome any feedback on improving the ending. Does anyone else think the final stages of the piece aren't as strong as the beginning?

The narrator is Patient X's conscience, but a few people have seen the narrator as Patient X's daughter and a couple have seen the narrator as Patient X's wife. At the end of the day it doesn't matter, because the voice is trying to get Patient X to acknowledge the damage he has done in his life. The story reflects on the fact that so often terrible things happen to others, yet we, as a society, ignore it as the situation has had no impact on our life. When this happens the victim is left to pick up the pieces, and we all know the baggage they have the carry from then on. One of the biggest hurdles to get over is the lack of remorse, and/ or apology from the perpetrator of the crime (whatever the crime may be), so the story gives hope to victims, suggesting that even though an apology was never gained, justice will be served.

Via Crucis is a personal exploration to the religious upbringing I had, prompted by some comments made by the Sydney Catholic Archbishop Cardinal George Pell. Now I know we should avoid discussing the big three (sex, politics and religion). But it was Easter, a time of great reflection, and to be honest I am a bit fed up on people's religious beliefs being used against them to explain the ills of society. It's a bit hard to see religious beliefs as the only way to lead a life without sin, when I was raised in a family where my parents 'taste tested' a multitude of Christian varieties. Via Crucis is my 'Way of the Cross', a poetic exploration of the religious upbringing I had, and how it impacted my life. It also reflects what I have seen as the impact of didactic beliefs on others. One of the most interesting (*a totally hammed up euphemism*) times in my life was when my parents because involved with an evangelistic faith healer from the United States. Won't go into too much detail, but this you tube link certainly puts the experience into perspective. It is certainly easier to laugh about things 20 odd years later, and, well, Australians are known for an 'interesting' sense of humour. No offense intended by the clip, and my family had a great laugh.

Faith Healing Clip

You might be interested to know that the first paragraph covers the first month or so of my life. I was so sick when I was born that I was Baptised (Catholic) pretty promptly, and then issued with the last rites. It certainly is an interesting piece of trivia to tell!

Until next time, adieu.

Via Crucis (Way of the Cross)

I

She was born in the Garden of Gethsemane and introduced to the pilgrimage that is the 'via Dolorosa'; and so the agony began. Pontius was called, and together he and the others preyed over her.

Father we present to you this child, praying that you will receive her into the fellowship of Christ's Church.

Her soul saved from the clutches of the damned they now recited the seventh and final sacrament; the Anointing of the sick.

Through this holy unction and His own most tender mercy may the Lord pardon thee whatever sins or faults thou hast committed.

I am sin itself, for I live despite your prayers.

II

Now aware of her sin she was burdened with the Passion of the Christ and bore it like no babe should. The cross was dragged through the muddied shame of Jerusalem, a constant symbol of the taint she inflicted upon them all.

Forgive me Father for I have sinned, it has been many years since I last confessed.

Adorned in the seven colours of the sacred sacraments, she was given the Holy Eucharist so that her body may liken itself to Christ's.

Do you believe that you are a sinner?

Yes.

Lord I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed.

But she wasn't.

III

She was afflicted with a vengeful scourge time and time again. The bleeding wounds continued to weep throughout her journey causing the wood to slip from her grasp.

Withhold not correction from a child: for if thou strike him with the rod he shall not die. Thou shall beat him with the rod, and deliver his soul from hell.

She fell. She wanted to die, but did not. Instead she was thrice denied.

I am not her friend.

She is not my family.

I will not heal you.

IV

She trod forth and they invited her to be re-born – without sin, without fault, without deformity. One only had to believe.

Do you receive Jesus, the Son of God, in your heart for the salvation of your soul? Let us now repent your sins.

She fell backwards under the water, but came out dirty. Verily she came upon her mother who was flanked by the Pharisees of the church. The woman had been washed in the blood of the Lamb, and the men now placed their hands on the ailing Mary.

I lay my hands upon you and cast out the devil. I cast out the demons and abominations that dwell within your heart and command that you be healed in the name of the Lord.

The healing hands also threw the child to the ground, but nought could remove the crown of shame entangled in her hair; her sins too great to cast out.

V

A sibling was thrust forward and made to share the burden of blame.

Lord we have sinned against you. Merciful Lord, hear our prayer.

The Lord did not afford mercy and smote their mother.

Lord I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed.

The Lord did not speak.

The new sin clung to the cross like a gnarled barnacle from the sea. The girl now struggled under the weight of her lost salvation.

Let us pray. Father in Heaven, please forgive their lack of strength and deliver the soul of their mother into Your divine light.

VI

An aunt stepped forth and with her veil removed the sweat and blood from the child's brow. A semblance of comfort washed over her; but the cross of shame cut into her shoulders and pressed her spine to the earth.

Have mercy on me God, in your kindness and your compassion, blot out my offense. O wash me more and more from my guilt and cleanse me from my sin.

But the aunt was the only on to show compassion. All others, even God, had forsaken the child.

VII

The evangelist reminded her of the Glory of the Jehovah. He piped a merry tune, but forgot the rats. Instead he took all the mums and dads. All the while the crippled, diseased and maimed children trailed behind, their heels nipped and taunted by the Devil.

Be on your guard against false prophets; they come to you looking like sheep on the outside, but on the inside they are really like wild wolves.

A waning faith, cultivated by children's services began to take hold. Their Earthly father reminded them of their duty to God.

Therefore I tell you, whatever you ask for in prayer, believe that you have received it, and it will be yours.

Still the weight of the cross bore down on the child. It made her tired and sleepy. She looked towards the promised hands of healing, and prayed for purification. He placed his open palm upon her brow.

Devil, I command thee, in the name of the God Almighty, rise up and leave this child. Raise your hands in prayer. Hallelujah, glory be to the Father, Son and Holy Spirit. In the name of Jesus Christ our Lord, I command you to be healed.

She fell for the second time, but was not healed.

VIII

The women of Jerusalem watched without compassion, their weeping and wailing was not for her.

Raise your hands to the glory of God. We pray to you, the God Almighty. Praise be your name.

She tried to speak, but they were deaf to her voice. They thought one so young did not have knowledge, and chose to ignore the cross strapped to her back.

We speak in tongues dear Lord, that you may hear our prayer. We wash in the blood of the Lamb, and sing your praises.

She did not understand their voices and knew this as a sin.

Therefore tongues are a sign, not to those who believe, but to unbelievers.

IX

The ground became rocky and treacherous to trek. The mountains loomed ahead. It was a scene that beguiled all except the child who bore the cross.

I am the way, the truth and the light. No one comes to the Father except through me.

She knew that she did not want to go to the same place as them, and this knowledge was a sin.

Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.

The rocks slipped under her feet, and she fell for the third time.

X

She was stripped of her clothes, poked and prodded until all her faults were proclaimed.

Let us pray.

She knew this was not the way to heal, but had no voice. She spoke in a different tongue, one that could not be heard. She did not understand why God did not bless her.

They would turn to me, says God, and I would heal them.

The cross of shame tore the skin from her back as she climbed the worn path to Golgotha. The crowd continued to jeer and spit. Verily she heard a new voice.

He who speaks in tongues edifies himself, but he who prophesies edifies the church.

XI

And they took her hands and feet and nailed them to the cross. Their prayers shamed her more; the non-believer.

I am the light of the world. He who follows me shall not walk in darkness, but have the light of life.

The skies trembled in fear and grew dark, blinding the child. She had thirst, and they proffered her the bitter gall and mocked as she would not drink.

My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?

And they said,

'No unclean thing can inherit the Kingdom of Heaven.'

The child looked at her flesh and saw that it was putrid and stained with woe, and she became afraid.

Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?

XII

And while she hung there on the cross, she did hear them sing out praises to the Lord. She did repent again, to no avail, instead she cried out,

'It is finished.'

Verily, the Passion she had carried died there nailed to the cross, and she recalled the words of Pilate.

'Why what evil hath she done?'

XIII

It came to pass that in death, the Passion became separate from the child. The sinewed limbs of the cross were no longer a suffering that had to be endured. She ripped her hands and feet from the wood and climbed down under the veil of dark.

Who redeems your life from the pit and crowns you with love and compassion?

A new voice. Yet this question could not be answered because all she had learnt told her that she was not deserving of these promises.

Master, who did sin, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?

And so he did answer her, to show that the sins were not hers, but those of the faithful, who had misread his words and used them to blame.

In all his epistles, speaking in them of these things, in which are some things hard to understand, which untaught and unstable people twist to their own destruction, as they do the rest of the scriptures.

Still it was hard to not feel the blush of shame knowing that her body had not yet become whole.

XIV

She journeyed forth to a cave of stone and lay to rest her soul. The lore closed off the entrance and none could pass.

'I am not sin,' sayeth the child.

And so she began to heal.

Amen.

(Via Dolorosa – Way of Sorrows/ Way of Pain)

NB: You may have noticed that the italicised parts are quite religious. They are a mixture of actual elements of a Catholic Mass or ritual, Prayers or questions often recited in the myriad religious groups I have been involved in, or direct references from the Bible. I will take the time to footnote each direct quote in due course, but please note that I am not trying to pass of parts of the Bible (etc) as my own writing. My writing is, of course, the placing together of ideas, and the use of the references to make a critical comment and prompt social thought on the nature of religion.

Enjoy :)

Patient X – complete version

They found you sulking in the corner of the room, blubbering forth a series of incoherent syllables that never quite morphed in status to words. Your weathered features, punctuated with mismatched hues of yellow, green and blue, sparked a level of sympathy often reserved for the congenitally infirm. It was a miracle that you were still alive, as the fall had rendered your legs useless, yet there you were, waiting patiently for rescue. It is the one thing you can do well - wait. Wait for someone else to do whatever it was that needed to be done, wait for someone else to take the blame, wait for time to pass by and maybe - just maybe, everyone would forget all the bad stuff. They didn't know this about you, and the bruises did not let on that there was a secret to be told. And so you babbled, like a Pentecostal baptised in the Holy Spirit, savouring the attention and relieved that you would soon be warm, comfortable and well fed.

I watched them gently wrap your disjointed limbs with a series of bandages, swathe your soul with tender words of encouragement, love and purpose. It was more than you knew you deserved, but why would you tell them that? You saw no reason to stop the pretence, no reason to admit that you had done nothing to deserve such kindness. I watched as they registered their newly scrubbed John Doe into a private hospital ward, and I waited too, knowing that mine was a game of patience, more so than yours.

You saw the pity in their eyes as each of them talked to you, trying to elicit a memory, a cord of life that could be used to reel in information that might help solve this puzzle. And it worked. It worked because your memory was never broken to begin with, just your ability to articulate the role you played in developing each and every one of them. I was the only one privy to these buried visions. You took solace from their faces, using the pity that percolated with ongoing tenacity to affirm the story that would now become your mask. I had anticipated this, as all too often I had found myself shackled to you, forced to listen to the lies that tumbled from your mouth at every opportunity. You sat mute through their questions, your eyes glazed in pretence of amnesia. I, on the other hand, listened to the memories launch themselves around your head.

Each question asked of you was littered with judgement. Never for you though. They were too taken by the beguiling nature of your age; your injuries duped them into believing that you had suffered more than any human deserved. Their scorn was reserved for those whom they deemed as being responsible for your fate. You and I both know that is you. You are responsible for this; I will never cease to tell you this. You will hear my voice as a constant reminder of the role you played in this. I know you will take solace from these people, as I take mine from time. You cannot escape time, you cannot escape me.

"Surely someone is looking for you? Your clothes are well cared for, there were photos of a young girl in your wallet." They wait. I am amused by their constant attempts to get you to remember. They do not understand why no-one is looking for you. You and I both know why she does not come. She will never come. I know you can hear me. I see the recognition in your eyes. I can see that the shame is hard to swallow, but I notice that, once again, you seek a reprieve from the past. You remind yourself of all the accolades your friends gave you. How proud they were of you that you raised the child by yourself. You basked in the glory of their praise. You used their voices to drown out mine. I know you could hear me ask you to stop. I saw you falter several times when you heard my questions. I asked you why you did this to her. I scoffed at your lies. You knew that it was wrong; still you accepted your friends' excuses for your behaviour. I knew then, as I know now, that as long as no-one else knew the truth, you would be happy.

"Is this your daughter? What is your name? We must find her. I can't believe that she left you there!" They are still fooled by your age. It is curious that human kindness prompts us to see only innocence in the very young and the very old. Now the very young I understand. You do too don't you? Think about her. She was young, full of innocence, beautiful. The old however, they have lived a life; they know what will disgust others and what will inspire. You knew this, just as those Nazi criminals knew when they immigrated after the war. Now when one of them is arrested people find it so hard to believe that they were evil. The Nazi's greyed features and thinning hair, curved spines and sun worn hands convince the world that someone so frail could not have committed such a crime. In the same way these people now judge your daughter. They look at you and think of their own gentle grandfathers. They would never abandon their kin, and don't understand why you have been left behind. Listen to them. Hear them. They are discussing your daughter. They don't know who she is yet, but they are disgusted by her. Their disgust fuels the pity they feel for you and enhances the tenderness in the care they offer. To them you are a valued member of the community, cruelly left when you needed the most care. Look at their admiration for you; ill-deserved, but only you and I know this.

Are you sick of my voice yet? I know that you pretend that you can't hear me. I will keep talking. She deserves that much at least. They think of her in the most disrespectful of terms, and you let them with your silence. Your hubris fuelled ruse is more important than her. When will you stop being like that? I have something to show you. You don't even need to open your eyes. Remember this? It is your child. You did this to her. She did not tell, you made sure of that. She stood silently as you grabbed a fist full of her hair and slammed her head against the door jamb. Your rage knew no bounds, and you could feel the power swell in your heart as you berated your fragile offspring. She stood there – that did not surprise you, as she always stood in sullen defiance. It angered you to see her able to stand so strong throughout your barrage. She never spoke, but her eyes were fire; a furnace that warmed her through those cold nights of shame and humiliation. The pattern remained the same. You would sit there seething each night, reminding yourself about how hard your life was because of this child. The hate would build, you could feel it clawing at your chest, pulling your sternum up so hard that you would soon stand resolute. This night was no different except that she was sleeping. She rarely slept, knowing that you were prone to wake her on a whim, only to ask her to complete a series of household tasks that really could have waited until the morning. The night was easier for you this way. If you had waited until morning the guilt of what you had planned to do would have made you stop your infantile behaviour. Instead, you chose to allow your anger to direct your actions through the night, and slept through the morning so that by the time you had risen the series of events could be wiped from your mind.

The first clue was the stands of hair that were trapped in the roughened edges of the jamb. You paid them no mind, choosing instead to yell at this child through gritted teeth. It was only when you saw the blood dripping down her legs and pooling on the floor that you panicked. Did you know that she did not even feel the pain of the cut? It was only as you dragged her to the bathroom, and stood her shivering body in the shower recess that she noticed the strange wet substance dripping down her back. I was with you when you called your friend to ask for advice. Your daughter was listening too; the pain of the deep gash to her head now pulsating through her body. She heard you ask your friend for advice, ask if you should take her to the hospital, then silence as you got the answer you wanted. She was waiting to be taken for medical care when you returned, instead you told her that she would be ok and to go back to bed. I saw the stoic resistance return to her face as you let her know that she would not be getting the attention she needed; relief too, because she loved you in her own way and didn't know what to do if she was forced to leave her home. Exhausted, you left her in the bathroom and returned to bed.

She is the one these Samaritans now judge. They do not know of the nights filled with terror, the demolishing of spirit that you commanded. Let me take you back to that time. The hallway clock ticked inanely, stretching the night past 2.00am, 3.00am, 4.00am. She could hear her heart beating a course of blood through her throat. Always shivering, she would think of her bed and its warmth, she would wait for the quiet of the dawn, when you were guaranteed to be asleep. Sometimes you wake now and listen to the hum of a hospital ward dimly lit with a plethora of machines, lights and neon signs. There is a sense of quiet ease, with everyone knowing their place, and you knowing that you will be looked after. Do you wonder where she is? They do. They listen to your jokes, your articulate explanations for the goings on in the world and know that you are someone they could only dream to be. They have scoured the missing persons' listings to no avail. But you are not missing, nor are you missed. That one hurt didn't it? You are not missed, and that is a bitter pill to swallow. Like the obscenities that you used to throw around with abandon, this knowledge will consume you, consume us. I see you have closed your eyes again. You can't block me out. You are not like her. She was a master of dissociation, a well practised art form of survival. You are the master of blame; he made me say this, she made me think that, I reacted this way because they ... Can you see the difference? No I suppose you can't, because I can see you now as you look for the nurse to show you kindness.

"Sir, are you comfortable? I loved the story you told last night, so engaging ..." The nurse looks at you with renewed respect. You are used to this. People are always pleased that you share conversational time with them. They see it as a compliment. The distinction of having such an educated individual take time from their own lives to enlighten other people's. This makes you proud, and once again you can avoid the memories that are now demanding to be acknowledged.

"I have been looking for your daughter ..." Your heart pounds incessantly; her heart was stronger.

"Do you remember anything? An initial, a place, anything? It will help." This pretence is hard isn't it? You avoid the nurse's eyes lest you reveal some semblance of truth.

"Your wounds are healing quite well, but without knowing who you are we are not able to send you home ..." You are happy to hear this aren't you? I see a tinker of joy flash in your eyes. I am disgusted, this cannot go on forever, the truth always comes out. I know that it is getting harder for you to ignore me. That pleases me. The decades I have spent trying to get you to listen are starting to wear you down. You don't even have to say sorry to her; only admit that her memories are true without the litany of excuses. Can you do that? I didn't think so. That is a fate much too hard to contemplate, yet I see a flicker of shame.

The nursing staff knows something. Can you see them? There, look. They keep glancing at you, talking amongst themselves. The hushed voices frustrate you. You begin to feel panicked, the ignominious sensation of being caught out mounts in your spine. I can feel it. Once again you resort to your old routine. I don't think your mantra will work this time. I scoff at your fear, but remember that the nurses still think that you are suffering amnesia.

You saw her before I did, your daughter's childhood friend. Did she recognise you? I am sure that she did. You pretend to sleep, as you are not sure if you can control your eyes

"Good morning Mr. Sutton. I have something to read to you that may assist your memory. I knew your daughter; everyone said that you did such a wonderful job raising her ..." Is she mocking you? You work hard to maintain your composure, although I am sure she has noticed the increased pulse rate and sweaty brow.

"It's such a pity you have amnesia, as I am positive you have such beautiful memories of her. It's such a shame that you have forgotten those. Let's see what we can do about that. Should I read?"

She takes your mute face as assent and begins.

"Never take revenge, my friends, but instead let God's anger do it. For the scripture says, 'I will take revenge, I will pay back, says the Lord.' Instead, as the scripture says: 'If your enemy is hungry, feed him; if he is thirsty, give him a drink; for by doing this you will make him burn with shame.' (1) Do you feel shame Mr. Sutton? No I suppose not. However, I am duty bound to look after you, and sincerely hope that you get your memory back soon."

I smile. An apt use of Paul's letter to the Romans don't you think? You sigh, and life continues as it did before.

1. Romans 12: 19 – 20 Good News Bible The Bible Society in Australia Canberra 1986

Hiatus over

I have no excuse, none that would make sense here anyway. I just didn't know what to write, comment, respond, think. I became a lurker; reading all the blogs that I love, having comments swirling around in my head, but could not take the next step. Two steps forward and three steps backward.

Tonight, I am taking one step forward. I will post the short story 'Patient X', and open it up for critique. I intend to put it forward for competition/s this year. Tomorrow, the seecond step forward, commenting on other people's blogs, and hoping that Wednesday night does not result in me tripping over my feet (metaphorically speaking), and losing track again.